Beat The Devil (A John Childress Thriller)

By Anthony Izzo

Former Navy SEAL John Childress is spending a quiet evening at home when he sees armed men in masks approaching the house. John attempts to defend his family against the intruders, but they’re taken captive. Childress finds out the intruders are from a shadowy government agency. And they need his services.

The Agency is in the business of eliminating domestic threats. The latest is a notorious serial killer on the loose. Childress is told he’s to track down the killer and eliminate him. He has no choice if he wants his family back.

With the help of the Agency’s top assassin and a former police detective who knows the killer, Childress must hunt down a vicious murderer and get his family back.

Time to beat the devil. The hunt is on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Knuckle Books
• Release date: Nov 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540187406

Anthony Izzo

Anthony Izzo is the author of 17 thrillers. He enjoys writing tales of mayhem that include anything from zombies to psycho killers to murderous shapeshifters. Anthony was a judge for the Buffalo Dreams screenplay competition. He recently had a story appear in the "SNAFU: Future Warfare" anthology. When not writing, he enjoys playing loud guitar, reading crime novels, and giving craft beers a good home. He makes his home in Western New York and features Buffalo prominently in his work.

Book preview

1

They were taking him to one of those supermax facilities, where John Raven would spend the rest of his days in a cell. Twenty-three hours a day in a six-by-eight cage, with an hour allowed for exercise.

The guards walked him out of the cell block, Raven shuffling along with cuffs and leg irons. The Department of Corrections van waited for them, dimly visible through the sheets of rain falling outside Block D.

The guard, a pig-faced slug named Harrod, nudged him along with a shotgun. One of the other guards slid the door open and they muscled Raven into the van. A steel grid separated the driver and passenger from the rear seating. They shut the van door and Raven listened to the rain beat on the van roof. It was a six hour drive to Supermax. To the end of his freedom.

Herrod turned to him and said, Going to enjoy your new home, Raven?

I'd enjoy skinning you. That's what I'd enjoy.

The look of anger appeared on the pig's face was worth it.

Boy, if I had five minutes with you, I bet you wouldn't talk so tough, Harrod said.

You wouldn't last five minutes with me.

He scared people. That he knew. He'd always been big, growing to six-foot-eight as a teenager. He had done thousands of pushups and burpees in his cell, packing on slabs of muscle.  Once he had crushed another inmate's skull with his bare hands. His long, dark hair sometimes hung over his eyes, making him hard to read. And then there was the scar: a mess of pink tissue the crisscrossed his right cheek, given to him by a cop.

You'll never see the sun again, know that Raven?

Do you have family? I once cut a family of four to pieces. The father lasted two hours before he died.

You deserve to rot, Herrod said, turning around.

Raven smiled, something he rarely did.

The van began rolling and he looked out the rear window as the State Penitentiary faded in the distance, becoming a large gray blur in the falling rain.

The scenery rolled past, the road flanked by towering pines. Up ahead twin head lights approached on the other side of the road. He could see the running lights of a semi, the rig swerving back and forth. Something was wrong with it.

It drew closer and Raven watched it veer towards the van, the grill looking like the maw of a great beast. The van's driver tried to swerve, but the semi clipped the van's bumper and they whipped around and before Raven knew what was happening, they had flipped. The van rolled several times and Raven felt as if he were in a steel drum being rolled down a hill.

He heard screeching metal and the blare of a large horn as the van came to a stop. He was staring up at the broken side window, the van resting on its side. Turning his head to the right, he saw the pig-faced guard sprawled over the seat. His neck was cocked at a bad angle. Broken.

The front windshield had been smashed out and the driver was nowhere to be seen.

His body felt as if he'd been hit with baseball bats. He realized when he moved his arms, his wrists were no longer bound, the chains having been snapped by the crash.

He got to his knees and began crawling towards the front of the van. The cage separating the driver from the passenger's had been peeled open.  He crawled over the dead guard, who smelled as if his bowels had let go. After ten minutes, he managed to crawl out the hole where the front windshield had been.

The guard who had been driving lay on the blacktop, his face covered in blood. Raven went to the dead guard, hunkered down. He found a set of keys on the man's belt and undid his shackles. Then he took the guard's weapon, a Glock 40. He grabbed the extra clips, too.

Looking down the road, he saw the semi had rolled. The trailer had been ripped open, looking like someone had taken a can opener to it. Smoke billowed from the tractor.

He saw a second set of headlights approaching and he watched as a Ford pickup truck approached. It stopped and a large man in a blue mechanic's uniform got out. A grease-smeared cap rested on his head. You okay? Any other prisoners around?

Just fine, and I'm the only one, Raven said.

You ain't going to hurt me, are you?

Raven shook his head.

I'll get my cell, the man said, approaching. Call for help.

I'll be needing your clothes, Raven said.

Excuse me?

Your clothes, Raven said, and shot him in the face.

He undressed the man, who was roughly Raven's size. After stripping down to his prison-issue boxers, he dressed in the man's uniform. The patch sewn on the shirt indicated the guy's name had been Jeff. Thanks Jeff, he said, and dragged the body, now clad in a pair of red Jockey shorts, into the woods. Taking the Glock and ammunition, he got behind the wheel of the Ford and drove off.

He wondered how much time he had before they realized he was loose. And if it was enough time to settle some old scores.

He drove for half-an-hour until he spotted a ranch home tucked back on a hill. A long driveway snaked up to the house. Even at eleven p.m. the lights were still on.

Turning up the driveway, he killed the headlights and eased the vehicle forward.

Off in the distance, sirens cried out.

Donald Spielman was in bed watching the local news run through a fluff piece, something about a dog riding a skateboard. He wondered why he bothered with the news at times. The dog, a terrier named Sydney, rolled along on screen, its tongue wagging in the breeze. Nonsense, he thought.

He glanced at Isabel. His wife was sleeping on her side, her breasts pushed up in the lace nightie. He considered nuzzling her neck and seeing where it went. Their boys were staying with her parents for the night, which meant a rare evening alone.

He was amazed by her beauty. The dark hair and flawless olive skin. Even more amazed that she had fallen in love with an average long-haul trucker.

He was about to make his move when a knock came at the door. It made him flinch.

Who the hell was here at this hour?

Donald got out of bed and threw on a faded terrycloth robe. The thing was so ragged Isabel threatened to burn it every so often. He tied the belt, intent on telling the person at the door to politely fuck off.

They did get the occasional visitor. They were a few miles from the nearest neighbor. Visitors usually came in the form of stranded motorists. Probably someone looking for a jump or help with changing a flat.

As he opened the front door, he heard himself gasp. A man with a bouncer's build stood on the porch. He wore a pair of coveralls that strained at the seams.  His long, dark hair partially obscured his eyes, making the man hard to read.

You break down? Donald asked.

I need a place to say, the man said. His hands were jammed in the coverall pockets.

This isn't a Motel Six. I'll bring the phone to the porch, if you need to call someone.

Your place will be fine.

Donald felt his face start to flush. Take a hike, huh?

He started to close the door, but the stranger pulled a semiautomatic pistol from his pocket. Donald froze.

Who else is in the house?

Donald's heart jackhammered. My wife.

We're going inside. If you try and run or call for help, I'll shoot you between the legs. Got it?

He'd been a fool for opening the door. He wanted to lunge at the man, gouge his eyes, but he didn't. Getting shot here wouldn't help Isabel. Okay.

"Good man. Now let's go meet that wife of yours.

2

John Childress climbed the stairs, an important mission on the line. He was to read The Hungry Caterpillar to Jordyn. At six-years-old, she was one of the top readers in her class, but she still loved her father to read to her. This was what he'd missed while in Afghanistan.

He's put in his twenty in the SEALS and had retired earlier in the year. It suited him fine. He had loved what he did, relished every mission, but being home was even better.

As he entered Jordyn's room, she was sitting up, a pillow behind her back. Her damp hair hung in loose curls, sill wet from the shower Megan had given her.

Hey, Daddy.

Are you still awake? Shouldn't you be sleeping?

Dad, really?

Really. You should go to sleep, Childress said.

Quit teasing, she said.

Or I can read you this, he said, holding up the book.

She patted the bed and he sat next to her, their backs against the headboard. As he opened the book, the lights went out. Jordyn gasped.

What happened? she asked.

Just a circuit breaker. I'll flip a switch in the basement and the lights will come back on.

Jordyn eyed him as if she didn't believe her father.

Megan entered the room, a flashlight in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and a few errant strands crossed her forehead. As usual, she looked amazing, even with her hair hastily pulled back.

Wanna play amateur electrician? she asked.

Consider me hired, he said, and stood up. He took the flashlight from Megan and she took his spot next to Jordyn on the bed. After going to the basement, he opened the breaker box and found none of them tripped. He speculated there was an outage on the road somewhere.

The lived in a rural area, the nearest neighbor hundreds of yards away. He couldn't even peek out the window and see if the neighbors lost power, as well. They were bordered by fields and the neighbor's house was too far away to determine if the lights were on.

He went upstairs and looked out the bay window in the living room. The pole light at the road cast a glow on the end of his driveway. It was odd that the light still had power.

They had an extra flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer. He entered the kitchen and something caught his eye outside. Someone was creeping across the field and coming towards the house. Dressed in black. A chill went down the back of his neck.

He burst from the kitchen and raced up the stairs. Entered Jordyn's bedroom. Listen to me. Go in the hallway bathroom. It'll be safe. There's no windows. Lock the door and don't come out until I tell you.

Megan stood up, her brow knitted into a frown. John, what the hell's going on?

Call 9-1-1, Childress said.

John, tell me.

There's someone creeping up on the house, he said, and went to Jordyn's window.

It overlooked the back yard, and looking out, he saw more of them, dressed in black and carrying pistol-grip shotguns. They were to the edge of the field, almost at the house.

Who?

Childress gripped her wrist and brought her to the window. He pointed out the men, who were mere shapes in the darkness. Her eyes grew wide.

You have your cell? he asked.

In my pocket.

Lock yourself in and call the cops.

She took the cell phone from her pocket, dialed, and held it to her ear. Nothing.

They only had cell phones, no landline. It occurred to him that the intruders may have jammed the signal, which would mean they were professionals. Had there been a leak? He wondered if he'd been exposed to some terrorist cell and they were coming to seek revenge.

Childress ushered his wife and daughter into the upstairs bathroom. He heard the lock click into place. He went to the hallway closet and grabbed his old softball bat. It was better than nothing.

He went downstairs, racking his brain as to who might be coming after him.

In the kitchen, he peered out the rear window. Two of them, carrying shotguns, crept near the back of the house, the men getting closer to breaking in.

More of them might be coming through the front door, and he cursed himself for not locking it. He hurried to the front door, flattened himself against the wall. As he reached to lock it, the door was eased open.

The two men came inside, but they hadn't seen Childress yet. Both of them were clad in black, all but their eyes obscured by ski masks.

He hit the second man in the knee, sending him to the ground. Followed up by smashing him in the face, the bone giving with a hollow crack. He fell face down on the floor.

The first guy turned, aimed the shotgun at Childress. He swung the bat, clipping the shotgun and forcing the guy to point it at the ceiling. He jabbed the guy in the throat with the butt-end of the bat. The intruder fell to the floor holding his throat.

He grabbed the shotgun from the man, a Mossberg pistol grip. A moment later, the back door exploded inward. The other four men entered the kitchen and fanned out. He fired the Mossberg, forcing them to scatter. Glass shattered. Hope that wasn't the good china, he thought.

3

Childress retreated upstairs, ears ringing from the shotgun blast. He knocked on the bathroom door and said, Megan. Open up.

What was that shot?

I bought us a little time. We need to go.

They could climb out the master bedroom window and get on the garage roof, where it would be a short drop to the ground. If needed, he could fight them off from the rooftop.

The door swung open and he saw Megan's tear-streaked face. Jordyn clung to her.

Does this have to do with your time overseas? Megan asked.

I don't know. Come on.

They made their way to the master bedroom. Childress unlocked the window and opened it, thankful that he had replaced the stubborn old windows with new vinyl. It bought them seconds.

I'll go first, Megan said. Watch our backs.

Megan climbed out onto the flat roof. Childress kept the shotgun aimed at the door, expecting one of the men to come charging through.

I don't want to go on the roof, Jordyn said. It's cold out.

Listen to us, sweetie. We'll be safe soon, Childress said.

Megan reached her hand through and helped Jordyn out the window. Satisfied it was safe to take his eyes off the door, Childress climbed out onto the roof.

He heard them coming up the stairs, the heavy thud of boots on the risers.

Childress moved to the edge of the roof, looked down. It was about an eight foot drop to the ground. He swept the shotgun back and forth. It was clear. No sign of the intruders. He guessed they were all in the house.

I'll drop down. Jordyn, you're going to have to jump, but I'll catch you. Can you do that?

I think so.

Megan, when you drop, keep your feet close together, let your knees bend, and roll, he said.

Got it, Megan said.

Childress dropped from the roof, gun barrel pointed down as not to shoot his own face off. He hit the ground, rolled, and got back up. Looking up, he saw Megan and Jordyn perched at the edge of the roof.

Jordyn. Jump. I'll catch you, Childress said.

I'm scared.

I promise I'll catch you.

Megan whispered something in Jordyn's ear and his daughter nodded. Then she backed up, took a few steps, and jumped. Childress caught her, hugged her close, and set Jordyn down.

Megan, you're next.

Megan jumped down, performed a perfect tuck-and-roll. She got up, jeans dirtied, but none the worse for wear.

The truck. Let's go, Childress said.

The men from the house were climbing onto the roof and he urged Megan and Jordyn to hurry. He pushed open the garage door and grabbed the keys from a hook on the wall.

I need you to drive, Childress said.

They got Jordyn in the back seat. Megan got behind the wheel and Childress took shotgun.

Megan hit the opener and the garage door lifted with a squeal. She fired up the truck, threw it in reverse, and backed up. Childress looked up and saw the men sitting on the garage roof like blackbirds on a telephone wire. He expected gunfire, but the men only crouched and watched. Couldn't figure out why they were sitting and watching.

As they neared the end of the driveway, Childress got his answer. A black SUV pulled in behind their truck, blocking them. In the rearview mirror, he saw a half dozen men jump out, all of them armed with submachine guns. MP5s by the look of it.

One of them tapped on his window. John Childress. Step out of the vehicle.

Childress looked around. The men had the vehicle surrounded, and even with the shotgun, he would be no match for them.

Now the men who'd been on the roof were on the ground and coming at the Ram.

I'm going, Megan said.

Megan backed the Ram up, turned the wheel, and tore across the lawn. Childress heard the crack of gunfire and a loud pop as the tires blew out. The Ram rolled forward on its rims and Megan brought it to a stop. He heard Jordyn